Long Live the King
by Rydia Highwind
Summary: FF4 - Okay, I finally am rewriting this cause it sucked before. Someone's trying to kill Cecil, but who is it? Will be longer this time. n_n *UPDATED*
1. Prologue

**Long Live the King**_  
by Rydia Highwind  
  
Prologue_   
  
  
Darkness. Nothing but darkness, all around. A blanket of stifling black was blotting out any warmth, any light, any hope that may have been a sort of comfort. The night was real, black, hungry, its vile jaws opening, clamping down on him, overtaking him, filling him with an insane amount of dread. He wanted to run, to escape the torment, but something inside him kept him from moving.  
  
"Cecil."  
  
A voice, so familiar and yet so distant. It was a pinpoint of hope in that dismal existence he was immersed in, a hope that drove feeling back into his numbed limbs and he turned around slowly, trying to face the voice which spoke his name so gently.  
  
There was light there, a light that had not been there before. He tried to take a step toward it, but a gust of wind suddenly erupted from behind him, blowing forward, trying to blow the light away. He reached out a hand, desperately trying to stop it, his only hope, his only chance for survival in this dismal world, from being rushed away by this evil wind.  
  
His vision blurred, but the light remained. In fact, it grew, and as the wind died down, he could nearly see what had eluded him before. The light reflected back and forth around him, though never growing enough to cast out the dreadful dark mist that seemed to be following him. He slowly recognized his surroundings as he looked around.  
  
Mirrors. Crystal, pristine mirrors glistening silently in the pale light, shooting up almost endlessly, casting the illusion of infinity surrounding him. A step forward, and he placed his hand upon the smooth, cold glass, facing himself. The crystalline armor of Luna was upon him, the scarlet robes and golden tiara perfectly in place and the azure hilt of the Excalibur waiting to be drawn from its ornate scabbard.  
  
"Cecil...do you see? Do you understand? You must take up the armor of the Paladin once again. Here is where it started and here you again shall bear my sword." The voice, the Light, was pleading with him, begging him to do so. "You cannot trust the ones you love, they are awaiting your death."  
  
A figure was approaching, reflected in the enchanted glass, dark, with death and betrayal in his intent. The Paladin-king looked over his shoulder in alarm, but there was no one behind him. The glass had a shadow of magic within it, and so he turned back to observe the scene.  
  
The silhouette walked with scorn and malice, and slipped a knife from his sleeve. As he approached, the knife flicked out and forward, and the reflection stumbled back, suddenly adorning a silver tip from his throat. An eerie factor, watching oneself die, enough to drive a lesser man to madness. But he just watched, unable to aid his dying reflection.  
  
He had just died. And yet here he stood.  
  
The reflection sputtered in horror and surprise, and he fell to the ground, eyes open in death and shock, blood staining his once glorious armor. The man took a step back from the mirror, horror nearly overcoming him.  
  
Justice, however, was futile. The shadowy figure had disappeared as he had watched himself die, and in the figure's place was a lovely blonde girl, her wide blue eyes horrified and saddened. "Cecil..!" she cried, kneeling next to her husband and cradling his head. Tears glistened and streamed down her fair cheeks.  
  
"Rosa...," he whispered, reaching toward the mirror and longing to console her. They had barely been married for two years, and yet she was becoming a widow. "Rosa, it's okay, I'm here... Can't you see me, Rosa? Can't you hear me?"  
  
But there was no time for her to answer. Preoccupied as he was, he never heard nor noticed the black figure creeping up behind him, adorned with a deadly silver blade. Pain shot through his throat and blood erupted from his sputtering lips. He feebly attempted to take a breath, but there was nothing but blood-red pain. Weakness overtook him and he collapsed forward, against the mirror, clawing at his throat and trying to look up at his aggressor at the same time.  
  
His sight failed him though, and the last thing he heard was the voice of his murderer whispering, "Long live the king." 


	2. Chapter One

**Long Live the King**_  
by Rydia Highwind  
  
Chapter One_   
  
  
The night in Baron was far from pleasant. There was a biting chill in the air, and a dismal fog spreading over a good portion of the country. In the midst of the blanket of fog, a city dwelt, its borders extending a massive radius. To the strongest country in the world belonged the biggest and most diverse population, it seemed everyone wished for the protection of the world's greatest weapon, the Airship. Especially after the dethroning of a particularly conservative ruler and a much younger, courageous, and fairly liberal Paladin replacement coming to power, the city of Baron had become a haven for those seeking protection and freedom. With the new king had come the end of a set of isolationistic laws, forbidding immigration. Thus the new ruler and his gorgeous blonde wife were popular as not only excellent rulers and heroes throughout the world, but as always a warm welcome to foreigners in their country.  
  
The country was well protected from outside forces. To the North, West, and South lay massive mountain ranges, with but one functional passage out of the Baronian boundaries, there blocked outside the miniscule village Mist. To the South and the East, there was raging sea. Baron surprisingly had only two harbors, one of which had sprung up in the peaceful reign of King Cecil. The country was very self supporting, with fertile land for farming, and miles of coastline for fishing. But the new king had friends in many parts of the known world and openly encouraged travel in his isolationist country. The people were growing to adjust to it now, two years after he ascended the throne. The new harbor had been completed within a year of the new king's wedding and ascension to the throne.  
  
Buried deep within the farthest Northern reaches of the great city lay the magnificent Baronian castle. It was truly a marvelous structure, its spires high enough to pierce the clouds and its great wooden door so massive it took twenty men to move it. The castle was extremely modern, though, thanks to the prior ruler's love for machinery. It had been him, after all, who'd seen the great potential of the airships, and allowed them to be built. Within the castle walls could hundreds men live comfortably. It was decked in scarlet and gold, which served as a welcome distraction from the drab uniform gray of the sturdy stone slabs that made up the structure.  
  
The king's chambers were far within the grand palace, near the top of the North-western turret. Far away from the hustle and bustle of the enormous city below, active even in the pre-dawn hours that morning, was where the Paladin king held his residence. He and his wife's bed was not so big it was extravagant, but not too small at the same time. It was perfect size, just long enough so that King Cecil could stretch his legs out without hitting the base board.  
  
And so he lay that night, stretched out flat on his back, one battle-hardened hand resting gently on his stomach as his chest rose and fell with every breath. He was not asleep, but rather staring disconcertedly at the ceiling in dismay. His emerald green eyes were illuminated softly, even though the moon could not be seen that foggy night. Sweat glistened on his brow, his silver hair plastered against his forehead. His breaths were heavy as he lay there, trying to recover from the disturbing dream he had witnessed.  
  
His breaths slowed down eventually, and he rolled quietly to the side, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He glanced back, looking lovingly at his young wife, still asleep, her silky blonde hair all he could see above the covers. Gently and soundlessly, he leaned over and brushed some of her hair away, and tenderly kissed her neck. Then, sweeping the covers away, he stood up, stretched briefly, slipped on a bathrobe, and made his way towards the bedroom door.  
  
He placed a sweat-soaked palm on the cool door handle and paused there for a long moment, wondering at the strange workings of his dream. He did not know whether it was just a meaningless nightmare, or if someone truly was out to get him. Either way, he really didn't want to think about it just then. He pushed the door open just a crack and slid out, trying his best not to disturb his sleeping wife.  
  
Outside the door was a dimly lit corridor running parallel to the room. Two more corridors led off at the ends of the first, running perfectly perpendicular from the corners of the royal bedroom. Guards were stationed at either corner in the passageway, so they no one could gain access from either entrance. Both corridors led to the same general areas, via different doors, which were also guarded.  
  
Both the guards in the elbows of the corridors looked up as Cecil slid out of his sleeping chambers. They were used to him taking late night walks when there was some sort of issue being debated in the counsel. Although there was none such issue that night, the king was out for an early morning stroll, and the guards simply nodded him by.  
  
Cecil allowed his legs to carry him without really paying attention to where he was going. He found himself leaning against the bar next to the kitchen with a bleary eyed cook handing him a steaming mug. "Here you go, your highness," the man said, nodding. The young king thanked him, and walked off towards his study, where he sank into his cushioned chair, not even bothering to shut the door. He could already feel the normal headache he got from sleep-deprivation beginning to pound between his temples. Tired but unable to sleep, he sipped his drink distractedly while contemplating his odd dream.  
  
Once he'd drained his mug and lit a few lamps in the room, he started looking over some paperwork he'd abandoned far too long. He was only about ten minutes into it however, when he heard a light knock on the door. How whoever it was had found out he was in his study at that ungodly hour, he wasn't sure, but any news coming in the middle of the night had to be important. "Come on in," he called towards the door.  
  
A guard stepped into the room, decked from head to toe in the traditional Baronian scarlet and gold. His stance was weary, and his eyes groggy, but there was a sense of duty and urgency showing in his eyes. He stepped smartly into the room and saluted his king. "Sir, there is a messenger here from Fabul. He says he needs to speak with you immediately," the soldier said.  
  
"All right," Cecil sighed, putting down his pen and standing up slowly. "Show him into the throne room."  
  
"He's already waiting for you there, Sir." The guard glanced at the king again, as he was now walking slowly toward the door. "Um, Sir...? Are you going to meet him like that...?" He gestured at Cecil's fuzzy white bathrobe, his light blue pajama pants, and his chocobo slippers.  
  
Cecil stopped short and examined himself in a mirror on the wall. Then he turned to the young guard who was awaiting nervously. "Young man," the king said in a tired voice, "is the Fabulian messenger aware that it is the middle of the night in Baron?"  
  
"I...I don't know for certain, Sir. Would you like me to find out?" the man stuttered, obviously a little confused at the question.  
  
The young king covered a smile with a yawn. He didn't intend to be mean to the guards, but his headache was making him cynical. "No, I want you to tell me what you think. Do you think he knows it's the middle of the night?"  
  
"I would assume he does, as most everyone is asleep and it's dark outside," the poor man said, not following the king's train of thought.  
  
"I would think so too," Cecil said, turning to look at the man. "That's why I'm wearing my pajamas to go see him. If it's as urgent as you say it is, I'm sure he won't mind my slippers."  
  
The guard reddened slightly, and nodded. "You're right, of course, Sir," he said, visibly chagrined. He walked quickly over to the chamber door and held it open for the king. "My apologies from not catching on sooner, Sir."  
  
Cecil stopped for a moment and looked at the guard. "No, forgive me. I get cynical when I don't sleep well," he replied, frowning just a bit. Before the astonished man could respond, Cecil had slipped away, heading quickly down the hallway to the throne room.  
  
Upon his arrival, he paused at the entrance to the large room and looked around. The chamber was spacious, long but relatively narrow, with elaborate scarlet carpet imbedded with small but intricate patterns and designs leading up to the far end of the room. The walls were bare but for the various torches lighting the room in that dark hour. In the farthest reaches of the chamber, elevated on three steps, stood the king's stately throne. It was relatively simple, but grandiose, decked in the standard gold and crimson, patterns and carvings running skillfully up the sides of the golden platform. The seat and back were covered in fine scarlet velvet and Eblanian silk, a rare delicacy in that part of the world.  
  
The modest Paladin king, however, detested the stately chair, choosing instead to be amongst his people, with them rather than above them. That early morning was no exception. The messenger was off to one side of the crimson carpet, waiting patiently but eagerly to talk to the king. His hair was cut in a traditionally Fabulian style, completely shaved but for one long ponytail from the top of his head. He wore light armor and a set of flame claws on his hands, obviously of the famous order of Fabulian karate fighters. His dark eyes darted nervously about the semi-dark throne room.  
  
Cecil stepped up to him, his figure and stance regal, a contrast to his bathrobe and slippers. He nodded to the man vaguely. "I am King Cecil Harvey. I was informed you had a matter to discuss with me of utmost importance," he said, gazing at the Fabulian.  
  
"Yes, Sir. You were informed correctly," said the man, bowing deeply, as was the Fabulian custom. "I am Ling Ou, messenger of King Yang Leiden of Fabul. I apologize beforehand for being the bearer of bad news.  
  
"It is my sad duty to inform you that King Yang came down with a terrible fever a fortnight ago. He sent for me two nights ago, though terribly ill, and told me to go to you immediately. He was certain he would not last the night, and named his successor to me, then told me to report his death to you. Normally never would I report that he was indeed dead, but the king was gone before I left, Sir." A deep melancholy flashed in his dark eyes, but his face remained emotionless. Again he bowed.  
  
Cecil stood silent for a long moment. Yang Fang Leiden, the newly crowned king of Fabul, the rebuilder of the stumbling nation, awesome fighter and karate master, and close personal friend of the Baronian king's. Gone. "A fever did it...?" Cecil asked, unable to feel any emotion. "A true fighter...it doesn't surprise me that he lasted that long."  
  
"I am sorry, Sir," Ling said again.  
  
The king nodded stiffly. "Fabul lost more than a king. They lost a truly good man." Biting his lip, he let out a soft sigh. "Who did he name as his successor...? I suppose I'll need to be meeting with him some time soon."  
  
"His personal advisor, Shing Khai, has been named the new king of Fabul." Ling shifted uncomfortably, then turned to Cecil. "Permission to speak freely, Sir?"  
  
Cecil nodded briefly, sensing a bit of discomfort in the situation. "Go ahead."  
  
"I'm not sure about King Khai, to be honest with you, Sir. This is my personal opinion, of course. Sir Yang obviously trusted him. He just seems...a little too eager to take over the throne. I don't know, Sir, it's almost as if he was waiting to take over. He does show great respect for the throne, and for Sir Yang, though," Ling added, obviously chagrined at his own berating of his new king.  
  
The king sighed, still feeling numb from the disturbing news. "Thank you for speaking your mind, Sir Ling. Do you wish to spend the night here? I can have a guard prepare you a room, if need be," he said slowly, suddenly feeling again very tired.  
  
"Yes, that's very thoughtful, Sir," the messenger nodded gratefully. The guard who had informed Cecil of his arrival received a nod from his king and led Ling off to a guest room in the castle.  
  
Cecil, meanwhile, paused uncertainly at the door to the throne room. Yang was dead? How could that be? It had only been a month ago when he'd been in Fabul to discuss the terms of a treaty with Eblan. A month ago, and Yang had been fine, healthy, alive. It didn't seem possible, nor plausible, that Yang could just be gone with the arrival of a messenger.  
  
In a dazed sort of trance, Cecil found himself walking back toward his bedroom chambers. Lost in thought, the next thing he remembered later on was lying on his back in bed, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. He wasn't sure what he'd done after leaving the throne room or how he'd gotten to the royal bedroom. A glance out the window told him he'd been gone a while; the sun was beginning to rise.  
  
He sat up slowly, feeling weary and unrested. It wasn't surprising, really. He hadn't been sleeping well to begin with, and then the unsettling news from Fabul. Sighing, he turned to his side, facing Rosa, still slumbering peacefully, and he thought to himself that it was going to be a long day.  
  
It was just then when his young wife murmured something in her sleep and rolled her side, her crystal clear blue eyes slightly hazy, but attentive nonetheless. She smiled gently up at him, seeing he was awake, but he could not find it in him to return the smile.  
  
Rosa, of course, noted this and sat up, slipping her arms around Cecil's chest and resting her chin on his shoulder. "Is there something the matter, Cecil?" she whispered, her tone making it obvious that she already knew the answer to that question.  
  
With another muted sigh, he looked away from her, studying the far wall, his emerald eyes scanning silently over the empty gray stone. He did not have the heart to tell her. "The room is kind of bare over there, isn't it?" he asked without looking up.  
  
"What's wrong? I heard you get up in the middle of the night...."  
  
He closed his eyes and leaned back into her embrace, slipping his arms around her waist. She snuggled into the gesture, pillowing his face in her corn silk blonde hair. He reached up and brushed the soft skin of her cheek lovingly. "Rosa," he whispered, his voice quiet and morose, "I have some bad news." 


	3. Interlude One - Kain

**Long Live the King**  
_by Rydia Highwind  
  
Interlude One - Kain_   
  
  
_Two years ago_  
  
Morning had never looked so dreary to the Dragoon Kain Highwind.  
  
Not that it was a lovely morning to start with. The rain had been coming down quite steadily the entire night, and it was not making any sign of letting up soon, casting the sky with drab grays and blacks rather than the usual blood red of sunrise. The entire plane of vision was the same, uniformly dull; even the icy mist erupting from his lips with every breath held no color of its own. The fire keeping him from freezing didn't seem to have much color to it that morning either.  
  
"What a perfect day," Kain murmured to himself, rubbing together his bare hands in front of his small fire. He was reclined, sitting cross-legged inside a make-shift tent situated in a niche in the face of the mighty Mount Ordeals, trying to warm himself slightly before setting off to tempt fate at the summit of the infamous mountain.  
  
He fully expected to face himself at the top, as it was rumored that one would battle his own worst enemy, and Kain considered his own mind to be his undoing. The prospect still scared him to the point of finding reasons for putting off the battle for nearly a week now. And yet, he knew that he had to go up there and face himself before he'd ever find closure. Any more of this stalling and soon he'd just push himself off the side of the mountain. He'd dishonored the Dragoons enough by simply letting his lust get the better of him, they didn't need to be further disgraced with a suicide.  
  
Already he adorned most of his armor, sans his gauntlets and his helmet. Something was telling him he wasn't going to need any of that once he arrived at the top of the mountain, but that didn't seem to make sense. He remembered stories of Cecil's venture atop this mountain, and he'd definitely needed his armor. Sighing lightly, he pulled the helmet over his golden hair, and then slid on the gauntlets. Equipped with his shield and the Lance of Holy, Kain stamped out the small fire, then proceeded to the top of the mountain, wondering vaguely if he'd ever come down.  
  
There, atop the summit, he steeled himself as he gazed on the stone memorial Cecil had described to him before. It was a place the Paladin had often vowed to return to, but he had landed the time consuming job of king, and he hadn't gotten a chance to get back there. Kain had to smirk a little at that one--he knew Cecil's wanderlust was just going to get worse in every meeting he was forced to sit through. Many might envy the position, and the man who held the throne was likely willing to give the job away with the drop of a hat. And if he wasn't, it could only be a matter of time before he'd regret taking the post.  
  
Of course, the people of Baron wouldn't have it any other way. The only militant who hadn't been twisted to the will of or killed by Golbez, the man who left a Dark Knight bent to the will of the evil king and the dark sword and came back a Paladin, the holiest of warriors and the savior of the world. Who better to rule the most powerful nation in the world than the man who saved that world?  
  
Kain shook his head. He felt the familiar pangs of jealousy shooting through him once again. It seemed his life was nothing but a cauldron of envy cast about his best friend like a fire. Every time Cecil proved his superiority, the fire would grow, but he'd always kept it under control.  
  
Until he met Golbez.  
  
True, he had not gone down without a fight. He had been tortured in more forms than he could remember, and gone through more agony then than ever before and ever since. But Golbez knew. He'd searched Kain's mind, and knew just what words would win him over. Mind control was only possible if the subject let the controller in, at least the first time. For the rest of his life, Kain would have to live with the fact that he let Golbez in. And for the rest of his life, Kain would have to live with the fact that he was not won over by torture, like many weaker-minded men had been, but by his own jealousy, burning out of control.  
  
Guilt was enough to quench the jealousy. Jealousy was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place, hadn't it? And now the blood on his hands was burning at his soul, burning away the jealousy with self-hatred. Cecil was a good man, and he deserved everything he had gotten. And Kain knew he deserved everything he'd gotten as well.  
  
He stood looking at the rock for a long while. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea," he whispered to the rain. "Then again, whatever I end up with is probably the best, huh?"  
  
The rain didn't answer.  
  
Not that he had been waiting for an answer, but one would have been nice regardless. He suddenly felt very alone as he took a step forward. The rain splashed lightly from his green-blue armor, soaking his face and hair and sending a chill through him. He reached up and touched the outline of the door. Would the rock monument even let him in? He waited for a long moment, then sighed, closing his eyes and hanging his head. "Come on," he muttered under his breath, leaning his head against the smooth stone door and banging his fist into the structure.  
  
It was then that he heard the first grinding of stone and looked up. The door was moving away from him, opening up into the chamber where his destiny lay waiting for him. He removed his hand from the door, watching and waiting, a flood of relief and despair flooding through him at the same time.  
  
The stone door seemed to melt away in front of him, and ahead of him he could see mirrors reflecting his every move from some unknown light source. Briefly he realized this was his last chance to turn away and leave, but something there held him entranced. Steeling himself and closing his eyes, he took a step forward.  
  
He did not have to open his eyes to know that the stone door had melded back into place behind him, trapping him within the mirror room inside. A sense of overwhelming and inexplicable peace flowed through him suddenly, and he reached up to remove his helmet. What was it about this place? He felt totally off-guard, though he knew the battle that would decide the rest of his life was coming up in a matter of minutes. His Dragoon helmet clattered to the ground, and he took a few steps forward, reaching out to touch the smooth, cold glass.  
  
"Well, you sure took your sweet time getting up here, Sir Highwind."  
  
Kain whirled around, looking furiously about for the owner of the mysterious voice. It had seemed to materialize out of nothingness, and no one he could see was present. Griping his lance tightly in his hands, he looked up at the odd source of light, as that's where the voice seemed to be emanating from. "Who are you?" he demanded, trying not to lose his edge.  
  
"I've been waiting for you for a while now, Kain."  
  
The Dragoon didn't answer. The voice wasn't responding to him anyway, it didn't seem. He just looked up at the odd light pouring down over him, and held his lance, ready for the attack he knew was coming at any moment.  
  
"Why so tense? Are you waiting for something?"  
  
Steeling himself, he looked up at where he presumed the voice to be coming from, and called out, "I'm waiting to be tested. That's why I've come here." He winced at the echoes of his voice about the chamber, but held his ground.  
  
"So have they all. But are you truly ready to face that which is your own worse nightmare? Many come here, and many do not leave, Kain. Do you even know what your greatest fear is?"  
  
He knew what it was, all right. The thing he despised most in the whole world. Himself. It'd be his own person he'd be fighting, and he knew it. He was terrified over the whole matter, and still, the only explanation he could come up with for Cecil's bravery as he battled his past was the fact that it was thrust on the other man's lap and it was over before he could even think about what had happened. "I know. I know what it is."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
Then the light vanished.  
  
"Wha--?" Kain looked around the mirrored chamber in confusion. It was now only lit by a dim light from an indeterminable source. Cautiously, he looked around, wishing he had not discarded his helmet so carelessly.  
  
There was a rush of movement from behind him and he instinctively ducked, only to find a set of arms stabbing the empty space where he had been with a long, deadly knife. Kain rolled away from the unseen aggressor and leapt to his feet a few meters ahead. The figure, though, anticipated this and lunged for his throat. The Dragoon felt a strong arm wrap tightly around his neck and the knife blade drew closer to his exposed throat. Desperately, he clawed at the blade, wrapping his fingers around it, not heeding the deep cuts running down his hands as a result. Down, clattered the Lance of Holy as the blade pressed closer.  
  
He stepped back, coming down on the assassin's foot hard enough to earn a yelp of surprise and pain from his aggressor. Now with the odds in his favor, Kain wrenched the knife from the man's hand and ducked down to the ground, groping for his own, more familiar weapon, his lance. The darkness in the chamber grew ever stronger, however. The Lance of Holy was not found.  
  
Without warning, there was a rush of wind and a shadow passed over the Dragoon. The assassin had retrieved the lance, and was using it against him. There was a sudden flash of blinding white light, and an explosion of sound and pain as something shoved him roughly back against the far wall. He felt as if his chest were on fire as whatever magic that had been used on him penetrated his armor and struck him full force. Crying out in surprise and pain, he tried to stumble to his feet, but the attack had caught him off guard and had injured him more than it might have had he the time to prepare. Of course he knew the lance had the ability to cast the Holy spell, he just always had avoided using it. He had no magic skills and didn't particularly care to possess any either.  
  
His aggressor had no qualms about using the magic at his disposal though. Even in the dim light, Kain could see the dark figure coming toward him, the lance raised, coming down for the kill. Holding his chest with one hand, Kain realized that in his other hand he still held the knife. As the lance came down, the Dragoon rolled forward with amazing speed and agility, and took the assassin down after imbedding the knife in his stomach.  
  
The other man sputtered and fell to his knees, dropping the lance. Kain grabbed it, leaping to his feet. Without delay, he shoved the point of the weapon through the back of the man's neck, finishing him off.  
  
Breathing heavily, Kain pulled the lance back, shaking it slightly and sending blood splattering to the ground nearby. He had done it. He had defeated himself. He had proved his own worth. Overcome with emotion, he stumbled to his knees a few feet away from the body, not heeding the tears rolling down his cheeks. "I did it," he whispered. "I lived."  
  
It was only then that the voice returned, casual and fleeting as before. "Living is not always the proper way of defeating your past, Kain."  
  
Just then, the light in the cavern began to grow, consuming the darkness and the shadows that had plagued it before. Brushing at the wetness on his cheeks, Kain looked around again for the source of the voice, but again it was in vain. The words pierced him to the bone, though, and he suddenly found he could not look at the body. Fear was consuming him, though, he had to look. So he forced himself to turn his cobalt blue-gray eyes toward the misshapen figure lying beyond his feet. And this one look ensured him what he had feared most. It was not himself who he had killed.  
  
Horror engulfed him as he felt his own curiosity take possession of him. The next thing he knew, the body was rolled on to its back, the face exposed. Kain swallowed a cry of panic as he recognized it.  
  
It was Cecil Harvey, his best friend. 


End file.
